


Whiskey & Cassis

by okapi



Category: Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Case: The Mysterious Affair at Styles (Poirot), Feels, Fluff, Goodbyes, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 10:06:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18689314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Poirot and Hastings say good-bye at the end of the Styles case as Hastings returns to the Front.Hastings/Poirot. Light fluffy smut.





	Whiskey & Cassis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luthienberen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthienberen/gifts).



> For the 2019 Merry Month of Masturbation and luthienberen's lovely prompt. I went with the American spelling of whiskey. Sorry. It just looks wrong without the 'e'.

“That you may return from the Front, _mon_ Hastings, so that we may hunt again together.”

“Thank you, Poirot. And that England may be a haven for you until this awful business is all over.”

Our glasses clinked.

Poirot took a tiny sip and grimaced.

“Ah, _mon ami_ , never will I have the taste for the whiskey. Now, a nice _sirop de cassis_.” He hummed. “But, alas, such apéritif cannot be had, not now. But, one day, Hastings, one day. And who knows? Perhaps I will make England my home if, one day, there is incentive to do so, such as the return of a dashing officer.”

As Poirot spoke, he pushed his glass towards mine, silently inviting me to his drink when I had finished with my own.

The simple gesture brought about a sudden wave of memory.

The last time I’d seen Poirot in Brussels. He’d invited me to his flat for a farewell drink, and I’d done the same thing with my glass of _sirop de cassis_.

The heat rose in my cheeks as I recalled what had happened next.

Was Poirot remembering it, too? Probably not. So much time had passed.

His voice, low and purring, cut into my ruminations.

“Imagination is a good servant, but a poor master, Hastings. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”

I stared.

“Close your eyes, _mon coeur_ , and let me give the dashing officer the send-off he deserves. They say every nice girl loves a sailor, but what do they know, eh?”

I leaned back in my chair and put myself, quite literally, in Poirot’s hands.

Poirot was as careful and deliberate in this matter as he was in every other matter. He took me apart like a case, clue by clue, but in this instance, his _Mon Dieu_ ’s were accompanied by statements of rare appreciation for the size, stiffness, and other notable characteristics of only one part of what he called my ‘extremely beautiful nature,’ compliments which I must admit, did sound rather fetching when uttered in the Gallic tongue.

Poirot paused only once in his stroking to press a chaste kiss to my lips.

“ _En vérité_ , it is the only way I can drink the whiskey. From your trembling lips, _mon coeur_.”

“And it's the only way I can tolerate that horrid _cirop de cassis_ ,” I replied.

“Oh, non, non, my dear Hastings, do not speak ill of that nectar divine when,” he gave my shaft an affectionate squeeze, “you are so very close to spilling your own.”

He had a point. I let it go.

His touch was masterful. As I had told Cavendish, Poirot quite inflamed me. I repeated the confession to the man himself and came in his hand.

* * *

When Poirot had tidied me up, he gave me another kiss.

“You begin a long journey tomorrow, _mon coeur_ , if you would prefer not to…”

Poirot liked to play the coquette, but never for very long.

The jar of slick was on the table between us.

I drained my glass and Poirot’s and very soon I was returning the favour, stroking Poirot while I whispered a litany of sweet nothings in his ear. Indeed, that was the trick with Poirot, the only way to prevent him becoming unpleasantly distracted by the inherent mess of the act was to get him positively drunk on his own magnificence, which wasn’t difficult because Poirot was, as it turned out, hung like a horse.

The secret of the world’s greatest private investigator was that the grandeur of his little grey cells was almost matched by the grandeur of his cock.

“You know, Poirot, when the war’s over,” I said as I stroked him, enjoying the sight of his swollen cock and the sound of his stifled little moans, “I’m going to come back and take you to a nice, secluded cottage—”

“—with modern heating and plumbing, mon _coeur_?—” he groaned, his eyes pinched shut.

“—with modern heating and plumbing and lovely catering and see just how much of your soldier will fit into this soldier.”

“But you are an officer, _mon_ Hastings, and I am but a civilian. I’m yours to command."

“Then come for me. Now."

And he did.

* * *

“I shall not go with you to the station in the morning, _mon coeur_ ,” said Poirot when we were clean and snuggled down in the bed. “I cannot bear it.”

“I understand. But don’t worry. I’ll return. And we’ll hunt again.”

“ _Si le bon Dieu le veut_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
